


sweet disposition (never too soon)

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 06:46:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6555850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re both in wardrobe, testing costume fittings; they both drop blue t-shirts on the floor, and Sebastian’s tired enough that he doesn’t realize he’s grabbed Chris’s until he’s wearing it home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet disposition (never too soon)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ViperSeven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViperSeven/gifts).



> So this is like the third version of the clothes-sharing pining!Seb fic. The second one ended up being much more pining and much less about clothes, and this is still not my original idea or outline. Such is writing. *sigh*
> 
> Title from The Temper Trap's "Sweet Disposition" this time. 
> 
> Based very much on the amazing Evanstan clothes-sharing adventures (links [here](http://lostromanianpuppy.tumblr.com/post/142543244730/i-didnt-even-know-there-was-a-clothes-sharing) and [here](http://stevetopsbuckysbottom.tumblr.com/tagged/evanstan%20parallels) if you want some visuals).

It starts by accident. They’re both in wardrobe, testing costume fittings; they both drop blue t-shirts on the floor, and Sebastian’s tired enough that he doesn’t realize he’s grabbed Chris’s until he’s wearing it and halfway back to the hotel.  
  
Chris won’t be back yet, having some screen tests to do with the various prop shields. Fuck it, Sebastian decides: they’re nearly the same size by now anyway after months of fight training and gym days; and he wears Chris’s shirt the rest of the evening while pretending to watch _Butch Cassidy_ and in fact falling asleep, still dressed, atop his bed.  
  
  
Chris shows up at his trailer the following afternoon. Holds out a box, gift-wrapped in patriotic stripes.  
  
Sebastian regards this offering suspiciously. Chris has a sense of humor fairly similar to his own, so anything from a Captain America-themed sex toy to a five-pound sack of chocolate-covered blueberries could be in there. “Will it bite me?”  
  
“Probably not,” Chris says airily, “but that would be telling.”  
  
“Captain America, stalwart and true,” Sebastian grumbles, and pokes at an exuberant ribbon.  
  
The box contains his shirt. His very plain dark blue t-shirt. Freshly laundered.  
  
He looks up. Chris has run off. What sort of a person returns a shirt—in red, white, and blue wrapping paper, no less—and runs away?  
  
When he takes his shirt out of the box, a card flutters down. He barely catches it, smacking his elbow on the trailer door in the process.  
  
A Starbucks card. With exactly five dollars on it.  
  
Sebastian stares at it, mystified. His shirt is no help; if it knows, it’s not telling.  
  
After two full minutes he swears out loud in three different languages, because he’s got Chris’s shirt in his trailer and completely forgot this fact when faced with the owner himself. He did get it washed, but.  
  
He looks back at the box.  
  
He looks into his trailer.  
  
Chris’s shirt turns up draped over Chris’s make-up chair that evening, just in time for his call for the night shoot. It’s accompanied by a dozen roses.  
  
Sebastian’s hiding outside with his smoked caramel latte, but he hears Chris’s laughter billow though walls and up into the sky.  
  
  
The next time’s on purpose.  
  
“Shit,” Chris says, panicking, “shit, fuck, I have orange juice on the _back_ of this shirt, how the fuck did I—”  
  
“I have no idea how the fuck did you.” Sebastian scrutinizes the bright yellow splotch with some curiosity. “I was there and I don’t know how you managed that. Okay, here.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“I’m smaller than you are, but not that much. Take it.”  
  
Chris stares at the jacket. Dark denim. Stylish. Not irreplaceable; Sebastian has another one in a lighter wash at home anyway.  
  
He tacks on, “You have to go do a signing. Go.”  
  
“So do you!”  
  
“I’m not covered in breakfast beverages, I’m wearing two other layers, I’m fine, go on.”  
  
Chris bites his lip. Accepts the jacket. It beams happily, being used for rescue services. It even mostly matches Chris’s outfit. It doesn’t _quite_ close in front, but it doesn’t need to.  
  
They look at each other for a second, standing in the hallway.  
  
Sebastian, for no reason at all, reaches out and tugs Chris’s—his own—collar slightly. More straight. “There.”  
  
Chris smiles.  
  
Chris Evans has smiled at him an uncountable number of times. Somehow this time Sebastian’s stomach flips. Somehow this time, with Chris wearing his jacket, grinning, faintly embarrassed, not protesting the final touch—  
  
He shakes himself. Manages a breath. “Shall we?”  
  
He even holds out a hand, a joke, a courtly gesture. Chris snickers, which’d been the goal—distraction—and takes it and bows over it, and then holds the door for him.  
  
Sebastian blushes, and wonders why he’s blushing, and trips over words more than usual because he’s paying odd attention to the line of Chris’s shoulders under familiar denim.  
  
  
The third time, he’s out in Los Angeles for one of the requisite publicity rodeos; or rather, he is, and his luggage isn’t.  
  
“Your shit is where?” Chris is unsuccessfully trying not to laugh. He can be forgiven for this because he’d offered his Los Angeles house instead of a hotel for these two weeks, and Sebastian genuinely likes spending time with Chris, likes the puppy-clumsy warmth and startling introspection and wisdom interleaved with beer-pong prowess. Chris is complicated and fascinating, and Sebastian likes knowing him. “Kalamazoo? Michigan?”  
  
“Fucking airlines,” Sebastian mutters, plus a few more colorful metaphors in Romanian, and collapses facedown across Chris’s couch. A helpful pillow plops onto his back. It’s not clothes.  
  
Chris sits down beside him. Sebastian rolls to one side to give him more room. Chris moves the pillow and picks up Sebastian’s legs and puts them back down atop his lap, as if this is a normal thing to do. “We can go shopping. Stores exist. It’s not New York, okay, but it is LA, we’ve got clothes.”  
  
“I look fabulous in bikinis. I have a photo call this afternoon. Two hours from now.” Because his flight had suffered mechanical problems, bad weather, late crew, everything imaginable. “Is that enough time?”  
  
“Honestly, no. Not with LA traffic. But…” Chris puts a hand on Sebastian’s ankle. Drums fingers over the knob of bone. Thinking.  
  
Maybe this is a normal thing to do. Maybe Chris turns himself into cozy puppy-heaps with all his friends. Sebastian’s friends like to get him drunk and make him sing Bon Jovi in neon-bright karaoke bars, which is not at all the same.  
  
He sort of likes this feeling. Chris’s hands are big and expressive and warm even through jeans. Unconsciously proprietary.  
  
He blinks. Proprietary?  
  
“You can wear something of mine? Not like we haven’t done it before.” Chris is grinning, amused by his own brilliance.  
  
If this is a dare, he’ll run with it. “Okay. What’ve you got?”  
  
He ends up in a heather-grey sweater that makes him think of clouds and fog and moors and rolling landscapes, plus black jeans that aren’t quite his usual skinny style but fortunately so given sizing issues. Sebastian has longer legs and is marginally smaller overall, but Chris has a ludicrously tiny waist. It barely works. But it does work.  
  
He regards himself in Chris’s bedroom mirror. Not bad. “Not bad,” he says.  
  
No answer. He looks over his mirror-shoulder in the reflection, to where Chris is standing behind him. Chris is—looking at him. With parted lips, as if about to speak, as if silencing the words.  
  
Sebastian turns around this time. In person, not through the silver distance of the mirror. “Chris? Should I change?”  
  
At the sound of his own name, Chris visibly jumps, flinches, stumbles a step back. “Yeah, fuck, no, sorry, no—you’re good. You—that should be good.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The pause lingers, extends; Sebastian feels as if he ought to say more, to bridge the newly awkward gap, but he can’t come up with anything right in any of his languages. Chris had flinched at the sight of him. Hadn’t liked the result, Sebastian head to toe in his clothes, after all; and is too kind to take the offer back.  
  
Chris does worry. Appearances, reputation, anxiety. Chris tries to live up to ideals. Chris is sending Sebastian out into the world dressed in his clothes.  
  
Sebastian unfortunately has no other options besides his airplane-rumpled travel clothing. He weighs the pros and cons of changing. He weighs that versus the distress he’s caused that heart. He starts peeling the sweater off over his head.  
  
“No—” Chris moves as if to stop him. Hand out. “No, what—hang on, you need something to—”  
  
Sebastian pauses, head halfway through sweater-knit. “Not if you aren’t okay with—”  
  
“No, it looks good on you—”  
  
Sebastian’s now afraid to move one way or the other. His hair’s getting in his eyes.  
  
“Please,” Chris says, giving up. “Don’t—god, I’m a fucking moron. I never say the words right when I—no, I’m okay with this, I swear, Seb. More than okay. Leave it on.”  
  
More than okay? Sebastian wants to make a joke, wants to derail the sudden swell of immanence, the sense of portents appearing, some previously unseen shape coming over the horizon to fill his sky.  
  
He doesn’t make a joke. Can’t. Too much quivering in the air.  
  
He pulls Chris’s sweater back on. Attempts a swipe at his hair, which fights back. “Tomorrow I might have luggage?”  
  
Chris’s eyes soften, like an unvoiced sigh, like a complicated piano-song: melancholy and rueful and fond. “If not this is fine. Come on, I’ll drive you to your photo call.”  
  
“My personal chauffeur,” Sebastian says lightly, and they go. That odd humming tension comes along in the car, not unpleasant. The crackle in the air on the night before a holiday morning. The first breath of sunrise and the scent of coffee on the verge of the first sip, like the day he’d gotten up early just because and leaned on his balcony railing and watched the sun come up, sparkling joy across cityscape.  
  
Chris drops him off, a drive-by, claiming he’ll go to the gym before looping back; Chris turns to him as the car stops, and leans in, and just for a second Sebastian thinks about kisses goodbye: casually sweet brushes of lips, a promise of _see you later_ —  
  
He can feel his eyes get wider.  
  
Chris clears his throat.  
  
Sebastian figures out that he’s been sitting in the car at the drop-off point and not opening the door, sitting in the car and even leaning in, as if—  
  
He practically throws himself out the door, flails for balance, grabs a mailbox, gives an _I’m okay_ sort of wave. His cheeks burn.  
  
Chris waves back, shaking his head, laughing. Sebastian does not know what this means.  
  
  
His luggage, plus an apology note from the airline, turns up the next day. He picks up Chris’s sweater, turning it over in his hands. He needs to give it back. Of course he does.  
  
So he does, and then stares at his array of clothing, waiting to be unpacked. None of his shirts seem right. He doesn’t know why.  
  
  
Sebastian understands he’s always been a sponge. It’s not character bleed, not exactly, but he tends to semi-unconsciously soak up elements from his roles, his co-stars, his surroundings for a project. His therapist says this is some sort of coping mechanism: blending in, being liked. Sebastian thinks she’s probably right, but it’s useful. And he does distinguish; he’s _not_ Bucky Barnes or TJ Hammond or Jack Benjamin or the bleach-blond Kent of _Talk Radio_. He just…picks bits up. Puts himself in. Gets pieces in return. Here and there.  
  
Skinny jeans and punk style and more than a few blurry nights that swirl vertiginously together. Flowing coats and fairytale rings for a while. He’s moved out of the dramatic jewelry phase, but the skinny jeans’ve stuck, along with an enduring love of quality leather jackets.  
  
Around Chris Evans, he relaxes.  
  
Around Chris Evans he wears jeans and t-shirts and sweaters that feel nice when he runs a hand over them. Chris always looks both strong and cuddly simultaneously, masculine and adorable. Chris looks touchable and kind. Sebastian wants that in his life. Sebastian wants to soak that up, if he gets to choose what he takes from this role, from this fleeting lucky scatter of years where he’s at this man’s side.  
  
The internet starts noticing, which means that Chris’s mother will notice, which means that at some point Chris will notice.  
  
His therapist says he should probably either stop and reassess his sense of self and boundaries or take the plunge and talk to Chris about this copying of style. Sebastian tells her he wants a new therapist, which he does not mean, and they both know it. She’s saved his life. Not an exaggeration.  
  
Chris doesn’t know about that. Chris was happy and playing pick-up basketball and joining drama clubs in Boston suburbs. Sebastian…had a rough few years. High-school minor scarring cruelties. Adapting to a third new country, scared, self-loathing. He’s never told Chris. He’s told a few fans; he hopes that maybe sharing that story, letting them know they’re not alone, has helped in a small way.  
  
His therapist says he should think about his progress, and that remembering the past is okay but dwelling on it isn’t. Sebastian tells her he’s not dwelling on the past.  
  
He’s not. He’s preoccupied with the memory of Chris’s sweater: soft and snug on his shoulders. He might’ve searched the internet for a matching item.  
  
He might have a problem.  
  
  
His new grey sweater looks right, but does not smell right. Chris’s sweater smelled like fabric softener and a tiny hint of cologne from being scooped up in a heap of options and crushed against Captain America’s chest. Light and crisp and male and clean.  
  
He apparently knows how Chris Evans smells.  
  
In hindsight, he should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve seen it in the shape of a t-shirt, a jacket. A sweater.  
  
  
Chris calls him and asks whether his guest room’s available for a few days, maybe a week. “We’re filming, like, right down the street from your place, but if you’re busy—”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Sebastian says too quickly, heart pounding. “When would you—”  
  
“Only if it’s not a problem—”  
  
“Never, no, just let me know when—”  
  
Chris gives him the dates for the indie movie’s shoot. Sebastian immediately starts planning. He likes to cook; Chris likes Italian food. Pizza. Lasagna. Oh, homemade chocolate ice-cream, he can do that—  
  
He’s not trying to _woo_ Chris. He stares at his kitchen and the test-attempts at beer-bread muffins. They mock him lopsidedly.  
  
Very slowly, he leans over, props elbows on the counter, drops face into hands. Breathes.  
  
He eats five muffins in retaliation and then has to spend an extra half hour at the gym. Worth it.  
  
  
Chris arrives and unpacks. Baseball caps and workout pants explode across the spare room. Sebastian smiles helplessly at them as they land on his carefully neutral plush guest bedding.  
  
He says, “I can make pizza for dinner, or we can go out, but I thought you might be tired?” and winces at himself. Not like Boston’s an odyssey away.  
  
Chris, apparently not listening, straightens up. “Brought you something.”  
  
It’s a copy of Carl Sagan’s _Pale Blue Dot_. Paperback, battered, timeworn.  
  
Sebastian takes it. He loves outer space and space exploration, of course; loves the dream and the hope of human lives among the stars. He knows Chris does too. He’s both surprised and unsurprised by this gift.  
  
He flips pages without thinking. Stops.  
  
The inside front cover proclaims, in large teenage-boy writing, _Property of Chris Evans HANDS OFF SCOTT!_  
  
His next breath catches in his throat, suspended by love.  
  
“I, uh.” Chris fiddles with the zipper on his bag. “You, um. I don’t know if you already have it. I just thought—I don’t know. Was it dumb? It was dumb.”  
  
“Chris,” Sebastian breathes. That same breath. He’s amazed Chris can’t hear it: the way it carries his heart. “You—this is yours, you can’t—you can’t give me this—”  
  
“It’s a used book,” Chris dismisses, blushing fiercely.  
  
“But,” Sebastian says, in shock, “but—I was just going to make pizza for you, that’s not enough now—”  
  
Chris laughs.  
  
The moment breaks and the book-pages stop hovering and the world tumbles back toward normal, familiar, known.  
  
“Right,” Sebastian gulps out, “I’ll just—start that—” and flees.  
  
He brings the book to bed with him. Puts it on his nightstand. Touches it once before bed, astonished; and buries his smile and laugh in his pillow, blushing in turn.  
  
  
In the morning they encounter each other in the kitchen, both sleep-fuzzy and wearing blue sweatpants and white v-neck shirts. Chris looks them both up and down, and deadpans, “One of us is gonna have to change.”  
  
Sebastian’s mouth, on autopilot and set to bratty before coffee, says, “One of us can make pancakes without setting anything on fire, and that isn’t you.”  
  
“Oh, really,” Chris says. “Oh really. That’s how we’re gonna play this? Pointing out my inadequacies?”  
  
“No—oh, fuck, no— _rahat_ , shit, what—no, I didn’t mean—” Chris should never have to be faced with that. No no no.  
  
“Okay.” Chris comes over. Puts hands on his shoulders. “Breathe, Seb. It’s okay. I know you were kidding.” The Boston-boy accent pops out on the last word. Betrays nervousness. “Sebastian, really, it’s fine. I like it. I like that you feel like you can be a dick around me. I lo—I like that you’re you.”  
  
“…really?”  
  
“You haven’t had coffee yet, have you?”  
  
Sebastian narrows eyes. Those big artist’s hands haven’t left his shoulders. “If you think the measure of my being sarcastic is limited by coffee, then you haven’t spent nearly enough time around me.”  
  
“Guess I haven’t,” Chris says, just like that, simple and plain.  
  
The words knock the ground right out from under his feet. If Chris meant—oh, if only Chris meant—  
  
—wanting _more_ —  
  
He pulls himself back together. So many wayward pieces. Scattered by hope. Flung out on morning light and the scent of pancake batter. “Blueberry pancakes?” He adds, “You can start coffee, but I make no promises about the sarcasm.”  
  
Chris cracks up even though it’s not really that funny. Grabs the counter for support.  
  
Sebastian’s heart glows. Physically feels warmer. Radiance in his chest. Who knew?  
  
  
After Chris leaves for filming, he does the dishes and goes to the gym and reads a prospective script and then remembers to breathe and then calls his therapist, even though it’s a couple days too soon for their next appointment.  
  
“He gave me a book. One of his books. He’s had it for years. He wrote his name in it. Well. And a note telling his brother not to touch it.”  
  
She says it sounds like Chris either is interested or has unresolved sibling issues. Sebastian amicably curses her out in Romanian and then starts pacing around his apartment because it’s that or cry.  
  
She tells him that sometimes it’s okay to have hope. She reminds him that his head is just his head, and when it tells him those things that’re worse than any critic or reviewer could say, that’s not a reliable source.  
  
He freezes mid-pace and makes a half-scared half-pleading noise and she tells him to sit down and breathe, in and out, right there on his kitchen floor.  
  
He thinks about hope. He thinks about Chris giving him a book that’d meant something, a book with personal history.  
  
He gets up and makes those beer-bread muffins, with determination.  
  
They come out perfect.  
  
Chris gets home at nine pm—no big night sequences in this film—and his eyes get huge at the scent of baked goods and Sebastian shoves a plate of muffins at him and says, “Tell me whether you like them better with butter or cream cheese or whipped fluffy cream cheese?” and they eat their way through the entire plate while watching classic Star Trek episodes.  
  
  
Chris stays for a week. Sebastian falls in love over and over again.  
  
Sebastian also can’t quite stop thinking about the glimpses of Chris. Chris in boxers and that white t-shirt, yawning. Chris half-naked and glistening with water-droplets post-shower, like a delectable golden-tanned dark-bearded cupcake. Sebastian has horribly inappropriate thoughts about frosting.  
  
He’s mostly dated girls lately, but guys have been a not uncommon occurrence. He’s not a stranger to those wants.  
  
The wants involving Chris Evans hot and sweaty above him in bed and telling him he’s been so good, he deserves a reward, he deserves Chris’s big cock inside him and Chris’s hand on his cock, Chris’s voice telling him he’s done everything so well and made Chris so proud and he’s earned the right to come—  
  
Unfortunately, he’s not a stranger to that fantasy either. He’d put it firmly on the unattainable shelf after their first Marvel film, being professional. It’s back with a vengeance.  
  
The wants involving Chris Evans staying in his apartment forever, laughing like the emotion’s drawn from his very bones at some silly _America’s Home Video_ re-runs, bouncing in the door after a day gone well or wandering slowly in and not looking up but then, yes, looking up, because Sebastian’s opened his favorite beer or put on a certain James Taylor album—  
  
That’s new. That’s new, and that’s the kind of tug that feels gravitational, like he could fall into it and never leave.  
  
Chris leaves after the week’s up. Sebastian walks him out. Smiles. Says the right words, a friend’s words.  
  
  
The day after Chris departs he finds a heather-grey sweater that is not his tucked artfully into his second dresser drawer.  
  
The one he bought is missing.  
  
  
They don’t talk for a while. Work. Projects. Demands on time.  
  
Sebastian dyes his hair blond for a role. He dyes it back as soon as possible. He likes being himself. He likes being himself these days.  
  
  
He calls Chris when they get their Civil War publicity schedule. Chris doesn’t answer, so he hangs up without leaving a message.  
  
Chris calls back two hours later, when Sebastian’s trying to decide whether to expend the effort on making his own version of a light pesto sauce or just ordering Thai delivery. They talk. They talk for hours: about Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, about hopes for the future, about writing and directing, about the colonization of Mars.  
  
He ends up making the pesto sauce and pasta, with Chris on the phone listening. He’s sure that can’t be interesting, but Chris tells him to describe it anyway, his own particular recipe, the fun of watching ingredients combine to form something new.  
  
  
The first Civil War interviews happen in Los Angeles. With a sense of déjà vu, Sebastian flies out, but Marvel’s putting them all up in a hotel and he’s not staying at Chris’s and his luggage arrives with him. He lies down on the hotel bed and tries to sleep, exhausted from an early flight and unsettled emotions.  
  
Chris’s book’s in his shoulder bag, not his luggage. He sets it on the hotel nightstand. Feels a little like home.  
  
  
They stand in a press room together. Most of the cast is waiting in the hotel lounge provided for their leisure, awaiting their turn for interviews. Marvel takes care of them: they’ve got free drinks and bowls of candy. The chairs are nicely cushioned. People mill around chatting and catching up, until fetched by interns for the next journalist-related event. Robert Downey Jr’s eating trail mix and making Paul Bettany laugh. Sebastian, running late—he tries not to, but lateness seems to happen to him more than it should—successfully sneaks in without attracting attention. Chris, wearing muted green and blue and his favorite red belt, is talking to Emily VanCamp and making _her_ laugh. Sebastian’s heart aches fondly.  
  
He starts to wander toward the coffee. Gets caught by Anthony Mackie, who teases him about his thighs and how much he’s changed, man, all grown up and slaying admirers left and right. Sebastian, because this is Mackie and Mackie’s sense of humor, says, “Well, if you need to wrap them around someone’s head, you know, strong thighs matter,” which could be an innocuous fight-choreography reference but isn’t.  
  
“Whoa,” Mackie says. “Whoa, whoa. I’m shocked, kid. Delicate sensibilities.”  
  
“If you faint I’ll catch you with my strong thighs,” Sebastian says, and Mackie laughs so hard he nearly drops his drink.  
  
Sebastian can’t resist a peek to see if Chris is looking. Chris is. Chris saw him making Mackie laugh, and gives him a thumbs-up, which is both encouraging in the sense that Chris might be proud of him and discouraging in the sense that Chris is clearly not jealous.  
  
Sebastian gets coffee. Encounters a heavily bearded Paul Rudd, already on a second refill, who grunts at him and dives for the sugar. Sebastian nods back, with compassion regarding caffeine.  
  
Chris slips out quietly after about ten minutes. Sebastian, having caught the glance flung his way, follows thirty seconds later.  
  
Around the corner, Chris exhales, shoulder propped against a wall. “Wasn’t sure you’d come after me.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I?”  
  
“I was…it’s been…a while…you look awesome.”  
  
Sebastian raises eyebrows.  
  
“You know what I mean!”  
  
“Yes.” He leans against the friendly wall next to Chris, matching posture. Gold and pink roses blossom from hallway carpet. “You look awesome too.”  
  
“I saw your movie. The, um. You know.”  
  
“No one saw that movie,” Sebastian says, half-amused, half-wounded, “despite the fabulous gymnastic sex. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“No,” Chris protests, “but I _did_ see it, and—no, it wasn’t perfect, but you—your sense of comedic fuckin’ timing, god, I laughed so hard when you—wait, are you cold?”  
  
Yes, in fact. The air conditioning’s up too high and he’s forgotten a jacket. But that’s not why he’s suddenly off-balance, shivering. Chris saw that scene. Chris saw him naked. Having sex.  
  
It’s a funny scene. He’d been happy to do it. But at this moment the central point, the extremely important crucial point, is: Chris saw him very naked. Having sex.  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to answer the question. Chris yanks off his own jacket—blue and shiny and bright, a happy hue—and wraps it around his shoulders. “Here. Don’t fuckin’ argue.”  
  
“You laughed,” Sebastian says.  
  
Chris now appears worried by the non sequitur. Concern in New England harbors. Someone’s not doing okay. Muskets summoned to defense positions.  
  
“You saw my movie. You—you gave me your jacket. You gave me your _book_.”  
  
“I wanted to—” Chris stops. Takes a step closer. They’re both a bit slimmer than at the height of filming, but still strong; Chris is stronger, Sebastian knows, though only just. The heat of that body surrounds him: Chris in front of him, the hotel wall at his back, carpet-flowers underneath his feet, jacket-shield around his shoulders.  
                                                                 
“I want,” Chris tries again, and stops again. “You—I never knew, I _don’t_ know, but—you bought a sweater. You gave me _your_ jacket. And I—I thought maybe if you wanted—more—I don’t know, fuck—”  
  
Sebastian, world falling serenely into place at last, says, “Yes.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“Yes. Always yes. Always you. Yes I want more. With you. _Yes_.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Chris says, staring at him in a hotel hallway outside an interview room.  
  
“No,” Sebastian says, “just me, but I could answer to that if you’d like,” and Chris starts laughing, so Sebastian kisses him.  
  
Chris tastes like laughter and chapstick and black coffee and male heat. Chris gets over the startlement and kisses back with vast enthusiasm, tender and forceful simultaneously, taking control when Sebastian joyously cedes it. Chris licks into and discovers and plunders his mouth; one of Chris’s hands lands in his hair. Sebastian moans and arches his back and gives Chris everything he has.  
  
Chris pulls back, grinning lazily, with a hint of awe. Their foreheads rest together. “I like you wearing my jacket.”  
                                                                                      
“I want to wear your jacket all day,” Sebastian announces, “I want to feel you all the time,” and Chris kisses him again.  
  
  
He wears the jacket all day. He kisses Chris and is kissed by Chris in spare moments. They amble back to Sebastian’s hotel room, wearied by interminable interviews and sound-bites; Chris looks at him and smiles with a sort of end-of-the-day goofy exaggeratedly seductive hope, and Sebastian’s not tired anymore.  
  
Chris kisses him more. Everywhere. With intent. Sebastian returns the favor while getting them both naked. Chris trips over his own boxers and Sebastian accidentally throws his shirt at the bedside lamp. They’re laughing when they finally land amid sheets.  
  
Chris isn’t new to this with guys either but it’s been a while, he says, and he bites his lip while he says it, watching Sebastian’s face with endearing transparency. His tattoos catch the light, fluid ink over rippling muscle.  
  
“Okay,” Sebastian says. “Just tell me what you feel up to. What you want.”  
  
“I want everything,” Chris says. “I want to try everything.”  
  
So they do.  
  
At one point he has Chris in his lap, riding his cock; Chris gasps as Sebastian moves inside him, eyes slipping shut, lips parted. Sebastian sits up more and runs hands across him: hips for help finding the rhythm; biceps just to touch; chest because Chris’s nipples are begging to be played with. Chris laughs, which turns into a groan, and shoves himself all the way down, taking Sebastian inside him. This time Sebastian’s the one who gasps: at the sensation, at the thought, at the sight of Chris Evans lost in pleasure, taking that pleasure from Sebastian’s body and touch.  
  
At another point Chris flips them over and pins him to the bed and slides inside him while he’s wearing nothing but Chris’s blue jacket. Plus Chris’s hands on his wrists. His own legs over Chris’s shoulders. He cries out and shudders in bliss at each thrust in and out of his body. Yes. Please, yes. He’s Chris’s. He knows that now. His heart’s somehow known forever. Chris is his and he’s Chris’s and he wants everything, body and soul opened up and laid bare for Chris’s caressing hands, trembling with comprehension.  
  
Chris whispers, “So fucking beautiful, god, I always—so sweet, so good, you feel so—oh, fuck, _Sebastian_ ,” and Sebastian comes like that, all at once, a sudden shocked tightening like an electric spark, a burst of lightning down his spine at the praise. Chris comes then too, with a gutpunched wondering groan, and that weight falls atop him.  
  
They hold each other in the night.  
  
  
“I love you,” Sebastian whispers in the security of anonymous hotel-room dark.  
  
He thinks Chris is asleep, but one protective arm tugs him closer and that safe-harbor drowsy voice rumbles, “Love you too.”  
  
  
When he wakes up in the morning, Chris is already awake, equally naked, regarding him with an odd reverent hesitance in pre-dawn light: as if afraid he’ll change his mind, disappear, vanish into dew. Their book’s perched contentedly on the nightstand.  
  
“We have time,” Sebastian says, yawning, thrilled inside at the solid presence lying against him, legs tangled with his, “use your jacket to tie me to the bed?”  
  
Chris laughs out loud, and does.


End file.
